Chaser
by Neci
Summary: Charlie Weasley always dreamed of being a Chaser. But in Quidditch, as in life, you don't always get what you want. Bill Weasley also stars.


_For my brother, who will always be my favorite._

---- 

Bill was my first word. Before 'Mum' and 'Dad', before 'Qui'itt' and 'bwoom', there was Bill. 

Mum says that as soon as I could walk, I was toddling around after Bill, following him everywhere. He never complained, not once; though I imagine I was rather annoying from time to time. 

When I was five, and Bill just a few years older, Dad brought us back a pair of toy broomsticks that he'd been given by a friend in the Department of Magical Games and Sports. You can't play Quidditch on those brooms; they're charmed to not do much more than hover. But Bill and I tried anyway, spending endless hours skimming over weeds and bramble in the old field behind the Burrow. 

"When we get to Hogwarts, Charlie," he'd say, "we'll play Quidditch together. Bill the Beater and Charlie the Chaser. I promise." 

And maybe if we had gone together, maybe if we had been twins, we would have. I remember being jealous when Fred and George were born. They were so perfectly matched for each other, so _together_ from the moment they were born, and I would have given _anything_ for Bill to look at me the same way Fred looked at George. 

But we were born two years apart-- two years, three months, fourteen days and ten million miles apart. So Bill went to Hogwarts, and I stayed home, and little by little everything changed. He wrote, at first: dry, witty letters filled with tales of exploding cauldrons, mischievious ghosts, and bogie-flavoured Bertie Botts Beans. 

I lived for those letters. 

But the letters I wrote in return were stilted and awkward, and I couldn't understand why the words that flowed so easily for Bill somehow faltered and died long before I could ever commit them to parchment. A one-sided correspondence is no fun for anyone, and gradually Bill lost interest. 

Eventually, though, I went to Hogwarts too, and while classes and diverging interests kept us apart during the school year, we still had the holidays. The birth of brother number five in March of my second year amused us both, and the following summer found us discussing at length the dynamics of such a large, male-dominated family. 

"So, Bill. Which one of us is your favorite brother?" I asked, trying to keep my voice light and cheerful. "It's Fred, I suppose. Or George? I know you loved it when they turned your hair blue last week. And Ronald drooling on your Mad Martin comics-- that was very charming." 

Bill laughed. "Oh, you know I couldn't pick just one. It'd be all well and good for the lucky brother, but Merlin knows the rest of you would fall apart without my expert advice and supervision." He reached over and tousled my fine red hair. "I've got to look after my little brothers." 

I ducked my head to hide my disappointment, then pasted a sappy grin on my face. "In that case, you must love Percy best. At least he doesn't give you any trouble!" 

Bill grinned. "Maybe I do, at that." His eyes took on a mischievous glint. "So, Charlie. Who is your favorite brother?" 

_You. You. It's always been you. _ "No one. I hate the lot of you." And Bill laughed again, and we grabbed our brooms-- real ones this time, an ancient Tinderblast and a second-hand Shooting Star-- and spent the rest of the afternoon hurling insults and chasing each other around the yard. 

And I remembered what Bill had said, and I never asked him again. 

The next year I tried out for the Quidditch team at Hogwarts. The captain that year was a wiry sixth year named Ethan Hooper. Looking back on it, I can see now that Ethan was a far better coach than he ever was a Beater, but back then I thought he was as good as any player for Puddlemere United. After putting us through some basic drills, Ethan came around and asked each of us which position we'd like to play. 

I just stared at him. Wasn't it obvious? "Err… well, Chaser. Charlie the Chaser, you know?" 

I blushed, my ears turning red. It sounded silly, saying it like that in front of the whole team, but Ethan just laughed. "You're too small, Weasley. Not bad broom-handling skills, though. We'd better try you out at Seeker. You can't be any worse than old Moreland." 

Well, as it turned out, I _wasn't_ worse than Alcaeus Moreland; in fact, I was much better. Those years of practice in the backyard had helped. 

So the years passed. Bill sank deeper and deeper into academic pursuits, displaying a real flair for Charms and Ancient Runes, while I discovered a love of the outdoors, caring only for Quidditch and Care of Magical Creatures. Every year I'd beg Bill to remember his promise and try out for the Quidditch team, and every year there'd be another mumbled apology and a new excuse. He had O.W.L.s to study for, or prefect duties, or he needed to finish this Arithmancy project, can't you see, Charlie? 

And eventually, I _did_ see, and I stopped asking. But I never stopped hoping. 

By Bill's seventh year, we hardly saw each other anymore. Bill was holed up in the library or common room studying, and I was outside practicing for a match or helping Professor Kettleburn root Glumbumbles out of the beehives. In hindsight, I shouldn't have been surprised by the confrontation that took place that May. 

I was headed out to practice for the Quidditch final, that same old Shooting Star tucked under my arm. Bill stopped me at the portrait hole, one hand on his hip and the other brandishing my unfinished Transfiguration homework. 

"Can't you think of anything better to do than fly around on that old broom?" he demanded. "Your OWLs are in three weeks! You'll never get a decent job if you don't apply yourself, Charlie." He handed me my homework stiffly. "At least finish your essays before you start wasting time!" 

In that moment, the combination of the famous Weasley temper and the tension of the last seven years proved too much to control. I snapped. "_Apply_ myself? Damn it, Bill, I work twice as hard as any Gryffindor in my year. I've got Quidditch practice in the mornings, and classes and prefect duties during the day. My transfiguration homework," and at this I hurled the half-finished parchments back at him, "I do at night. Don't talk to me about applying myself. I'm just not as smart as you. You… you're so good at everything, aren't you? So bloody perfect at everything you do-- hell, I bet you would have beaten me at Quidditch, if you could have found the time. But Quidditch isn't a real subject-- it's just a game, for all the dunderheads and pretty boys who aren't smart enough to have a real career. Well, sod off, Bill. Not everyone can be the bloody perfect Head Boy." My voice cracked at the end, strained with emotion. I was mortified to find that I was crying, though truth be told Bill wasn't faring much better. He was white as a sheet, and I found myself, inanely, focusing on his freckles, so dark against his pale skin. 

"Listen, Charlie…" he started. I waved him off. 

"Just… don't, Bill. I've got Quidditch practice. I'll see you later." And I brushed past him, stomping out of the common room and slamming the portrait of the Fat Lady behind me. 

Gryffindor won the Cup, and I managed a decent number of O.W.L.s, but Bill and I didn't speak to each other for almost two months. It was Dad who made us make up. He doesn't get angry very often, so when he does, we listen. "You're upsetting Ginny," he told us. "Now work it out." 

We didn't work it out so much as ignore it, and after a while it got easier to pretend everything was fine. Bill was in Egypt, and I had my dragons, so there wasn't much time to talk to each other even if we had wanted to. When I moved out to Romania, Bill started writing letters again, full of cheerful banalities and superficial warmth. I wrote, too; sending gifts in place of words: boots of dragon hide and a fang earring that appalled Mum the first time she saw it. 

My tent-mate that first year, Mihail… Vladoiu, I think his name was… watched me labor over those letters at night, sometimes offering suggestions on a funny story I should share, or just what sort of trinket I should send next. "Are you close?" he asked one night, as I poured over my latest draft, checking for errors and trying so very hard to sound sophisticated. 

"We don't have very much in common." I managed, the words twisting in my throat. And I guess that's the truth after all. 

I'm a damn good Quidditch player, I know, and the finest Seeker Gryffindor's had for ages. We won the Cup twice when I was Captain-- and more importantly, pounded Slytherin into the ground every year. 

But Ethan was right. I make a terrible Chaser. All those years of chasing after Bill, and I never once caught him. 


End file.
